


Alegria

by Autumn_Ignited



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Circus, Alternate Universe - Historical, Duo has an alternate agenda, Historical, M/M, Quatre tries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-18 04:01:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21721435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Autumn_Ignited/pseuds/Autumn_Ignited
Summary: After Quatre takes over Winner Enterprises in the wake of World War II, he is determined to turn the company from arms manufacturing to a company that utilizes its influence for peace. As part of that initiative and as a show of goodwill, he has given a local circus a permanent home for the people of the town to enjoy for free whenever they like. What he did not expect was to become engrossed in the world of the circus itself in all of its strange, otherworldly beauty - or to be so interested in the mysterious acrobat with the kind eyes who never speaks a word. Things become more complicated when a Mr. Maxwell begins hanging around, ostensibly to ingratiate himself as a business partner, but when near-fatal accidents begin occurring with more frequency, Quatre has to wonder what he has really gotten himself into.
Relationships: Trowa Barton/Quatre Raberba Winner
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	Alegria

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! This is actually my first foray into Gundam Wing fanfiction, and it was an honor and a pleasure to be paired up with the incomparable Blue as my artist! Seriously, I about died when I found out we were matched, and it helped to inspire me so much. Art included in the first chapter, but please go check them out : bluesquishylemon.tumblr.com
> 
> This is technically only part one of a multipart fic, so you won't see Heero here just yet, but he'll be skulking around in the future. 
> 
> As always, please feel free to let me know what you think, or hit me up on Twitter: https://twitter.com/AutumnIgnited

Chapter 1 - Tea by Samovar 

The rain hadn’t let up for three days. The meadow, previously overrun with springtime poppies, was now a mess of deep, muddy trenches from the tracks of tires and constant march of so many boots. Though several rudimentary walkways had been erected with plywood and loose lumber, the likelihood of crossing from where the cars were parked to the largest tent without staining one’s trousers was slim at best. 

Still, Quatre took his time navigating the boards, windmilling his arms now and then when one of them teetered on its axis. He had long ago given up trying to keep his hair dry, but at least he might be able to save the suit. 

This was not what he had envisioned when he’d come to America to take over for his (late? He ought to just say ‘late’ and accept it) father, taking his predestined place as the head of Winner Enterprises. He’d known since he was a child that he would be the sole heir, would one day lead the company his grandfather had started, but it had seemed distant - like a dream, or a story told about someone else. When his father had been officially declared missing and presumed dead, the arrangements had been made quicker than his grief had been able to seep in. Now, two years after the end of the war, he was still finding his footing. 

_Figuratively and literally,_ he thought dryly as another board wobbled beneath his feet. 

As soon as he had landed on American soil, he’d missed the dry heat of his homeland, the smell of plumeria blooming by the pool, the bougainvillea bursting hot pink and starch white under the sun. Here, it was chilly and even so, he always sweat through his undershirt. The humidity made the short curls of his hair expand to unflattering heights, and made him feel constantly clammy, constantly on the verge of a cold. 

The plan had been a good one, and his work was deeply important - Quatre knew and felt that acutely. Still...why _here?_

His displeasure must have shown on his face as he pulled the flap back on the Ringmaster’s tent, as the large man turned and began to laugh. 

“My friend!” he said, coming over to clap Quatre on the back with enough force to make him wheeze. “How are you finding our weather this time of year, hm?” His brown eyes twinkled in amusement.

“It’s -” Quatre began. _Damp. Awful. Rotting. Cold._ “Very different from what I am used to, for sure.” 

The large man chuckled and gestured for Quatre to come in and make himself comfortable, which Quatre had no qualms about doing, stripping his suit jacket and hanging it across the back of a chair to dry. To his great relief, the Ringmaster had already gone to light the pretty copper samovar and set a matching pot on top to begin brewing tea. It was the samovar that had ingratiated him to Quatre almost immediately. They found they both had a fondness for strong tea, brewed in the old ways. History would have dictated that they be hostile, but Quatre was here to divert that sort of thinking. Still, he recognized why the man might choose to simply go publicly by “Ringmaster” and not his given name of “Vlad,” seeing as how recent events...well. 

He was an enormous man whose red coat made him seem even more flashy and imposing when he stood in the ring. Here, in his tent, he was bundled simply in a shapeless grey sweater that Quatre found he envied. The teapot looked pathetically small in his brown hands as he poured it, though their size belied the grace and reverence in the gesture. The tea came out the perfect shade of greenish-amber, and Quatre detected a hint of anise in the fragrant steam. He wrapped his hands greedily around the porcelain cup he was offered, to Vlad’s continued amusement. 

“Now, my friend,” Vlad said, easing himself into a chair that creaked under his weight. “To what do we owe the honor of a personal visit from our patron?” 

Quatre didn’t answer for a minute, savoring the taste against his tongue. He had to stop himself from groaning in pleasure. It _was_ anise. He very well may have been in love, though whether it was with the tea maker or the tea itself, who could say. Not that Vlad was his type in the least. 

Did he have a type? Did it matter? Certainly not, his sisters had made that _abundantly_ clear when he’d - 

A polite cough brought him back to the present and he rubbed the back of his neck self-deprecatingly. “Apologies, it has been a long time since I have had tea like this. America isn’t exactly a bustling hub of culture.” He frowned. “I’m sorry, that was -” 

Vlad waved him off. “It is not the absence of culture that America suffers from, my friend, but a crisis of identity. This is a place that would not exist without the cultures of those who came to make it, and those few who were here first. Too many cooks in a very small kitchen, as they say. But, it has its charms, and it is in need of care. The whole world is, now.”

Quatre nodded. “Yes, certainly. And along those lines, Ms. Catalonia insisted that I come see how preparations were going myself. Frankly, I won’t know the first thing about anything, but I am certainly curious and eager to see it up close.” 

And that was true. Ever since they had settled - finally, after much deliberation and irritation - on a circus, Quatre’s curiosity had been piqued. He had never been to the circus as a child; There had never been one nearby. He had seen pictures and, on one rare occasion, a short reel in a nickelodeon depicting the slapstick of clowns tumbling from their car, juggling, and generally causing the sort of mayhem that translated well to pictures.

Originally, Quatre had planned to divert the money to an art museum or a craft fair. Perhaps even a theatrical event. It had been Dorothy who reminded him that high art wasn’t for everyone, and what people really needed now wasn’t necessarily art but _spectacle._ Not that the two were mutually exclusive, but the whole point was to offer some kind of escapism, something good, pure, and fun, a way to help mend the people’s lives and build goodwill toward their company as they rebranded. To shuffle along a new start amongst the ruin of the war - for all of them. A circus was perfect for that, she had insisted, and now, Quatre was inclined to agree.

This particular circus had been chosen for its unique style and avant-garde performances - which was a more civilized way of admitting that Quatre actually just wanted to see the aerial performances up close. The deal worked well for everyone involved - so far, at least. Winner Enterprises funded the circus and offered free tickets to the local population as a show of good faith while they both built new facilities and retrofitted the old ones away from the arms manufacturing of Quatre’s grandfather towards what Quatre’s father, and now Quatre, had envisioned - the use of their resources to rebuild infrastructure, to, essentially, help rebuild all around. Having lived through his father’s tales of the first Great war and having personally lived through the second, Quatre was staunchly on the side of pacifism and would have no part in helping to promote violence just to line his pockets. In many ways, he resented the wealth his grandfather’s legacy had brought them - more money than most people could fathom, but at a steeply bloody cost. How many lives had been taken by a sharpshooter with a Winner rifle, a cannon, a plane, a ship? 

No. Those days were done, and it would be a long while before the name “Winner” was no longer synonymous with “war,” but, well, that was why he was here, in a tent, in the rain. Everything had a point of origin. Even the ocean was fed by a spring. 

Vlad grinned, and it split his dark beard across a row of pearly teeth. “We would be more than happy to show you. Of course, you may not want to see _everything,_ since that might ruin the illusion of opening night. But - the place is yours, my friend. We are at your service.” 

Quatre hated that sort of deferential treatment, but he certainly was used to it. “I’d rather have someone along to tell me what I’m looking at, if that’s alright. I’m afraid I’ll bring the whole tent down by the ropes if left to my own devices.” 

Again, that earthy chuckle that reminded Quatre of cozy nights and crackling fires. “Of course, of course. Finish your tea, and we’ll see who we can dredge up to give you a tour, yes?” 

“Yes,” Quatre replied automatically. “I mean, thank you, that would be wonderful.” 

“Good, good,” Vlad said, and poured Quatre another cup. “Now drink up, lad - before it goes cold.” 

\--- 

In the end, the tour took the better part of two hours. Not that Quatre was complaining in the least - it was fascinating. Certainly moreso than the meetings and paperwork waiting for him back at their makeshift headquarters, but even without that, he found himself dazzled as any newcomer by the sheer magnitude and strangeness of what went on behind the scenes to put on such a unique show. 

Around lunchtime, he’d been invited into the mess tent to take a meal with them all, a gesture that he gladly accepted, as he’d run out of the house with nothing more in his stomach than half a banana and a cracker or two. Leah, his tour guide, pointed him in the direction of the mess tent, but he excused himself first to go “avail himself of their facilities.” When Leah had frowned at that, he amended it to, “You know...the...the little boys’ room?” His embarrassment at having chosen _that_ out of any other available phrase was ameliorated somewhat by Leah’s surprised bark of laughter. She’d waved him towards another set of tents, blue this time instead of red, and instructed him not to get lost on the way back. He’d chuckled and assured her he wouldn’t. 

That had been ten minutes ago, and damned if this place wasn’t much bigger than it looked from the outside. He’d been so sure he was heading in the right direction when he’d left, but after a while, the tents started to look pretty similar. They were either primarily red with blue stripes, blue with red stripes, or generic canvas white and there were just so damned many of them! He’d have to ask if these would all be here come showtime - if so, they would absolutely need to set up some sort of path, or lighting, or signage, or _something_ to help guide lost souls back from the bathroom, because this place was a maze, for sure, and if only he had just - 

Quatre pulled up short, having lifted the flap to a tent he was certain was the mess hall. Instead, he was looking right into the eyes of a stranger. The man was alone, seated on a small setee in front of a mirror, one hand stopped halfway to his face. Dimly, Quatre realized he wasn’t really looking _at_ the man, but rather meeting the gaze of his reflection. 

For a moment, he simply...stared. Green eyes stared right back. 

He had no idea how long he’d been standing there, gawking at this man like an idiot. He cleared his throat and awkwardly shifted his weight. “Oh, I...I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude, it’s just that I’m lost, and I can’t find the mess tent anywhere, and I was so sure this was it-” 

He stopped babbling when the dimmest hint of a smile twitched the corners of the man’s mouth and crinkled his eyes. He twisted on the setee to face Quatre fully, and he swallowed, choking down the words he’d been about to say. The man was _handsome -_ skin tanner than his, brown hair that hung low over his face, a thin, straight nose and full mouth, and goodness, those eyes, a shade of green he’d never seen before. Like a panther, he imagined those eyes might glow in the dark. 

The man cocked his head a little and stood. Quatre blanched, pulse rising. The tent flap dropped behind him with a whisper. Up close the man easily had five or six inches on him, and Quatre could see the cut of his chest under his tight sweater. An acrobat, then? He was so slender, though - lean muscle that wouldn’t support another human being much larger than himself. Juggler? Contortionist? 

His train of thought derailed when the man reached out his hand, inching it close to Quatre’s cheek. His hearing grew fuzzy; his face burned. What...what was he…

Then the hand moved past to push open the tent flap instead. A signal for Quatre to leave. 

“O-oh. Yes, of course, my apologies once again,” Quatre mumbled and started to go but stopped when he felt a strong grip on his elbow. He turned and met kind green eyes once more, close enough to smell something like clove on the man’s breath. The man let go of his elbow and pointed past him, indicating a tent on the far side of the clearing, and nodded in its direction. 

“The mess tent? That one?” 

The man nodded again. 

“Oh...thank you. Very much.”

Another nod, this one with another of those not-quite-smiles. 

“Well...I...I’ll...show myself out,” Quatre said, absurdly, fumbling behind himself for the flap, unable to look away. He nearly stumbled in the mud as he backed out of the tent. As soon as the flap closed, he felt like he could breathe again. 

It had been a very long time since his empathic ability had manifested with such gusto. Usually, he went into these sort of...hyper-focused trances when someone near him was feeling something particularly strong. It was always confusing as to whether or not Quatre was feeling someone else’s emotions amplified, or his own reactions to those emotions. To experience this now seemed inexplicable. Surely the placid man wasn’t in any sort of emotional turmoil. He’d seemed fine. 

There had been a wisp of something - an underlying feeling so faint that Quatre could have imagined it. Sadness, perhaps? Or was he projecting? Making things up? Likely, the stranger had simply been annoyed at the intrusion. 

Shaking his head at himself, Quatre gave himself a stern lecture on minding his own business and not just barging into the next tent he came across. Luckily for him, the stranger had been correct, and the tent ahead was buzzing with the din of conversation and clacking silverware. 

Leah spotted him over the heads of the other performers and waved. Sheepishly, Quatre raised his hand and threaded his way through the crowd to sit by her, gratefully taking up a fork from the tray she slid across to him. 

“We took you for a goner, Sir. Figure’d the rain’d washed you clear away!” Leah said amicably around a mouthful of dinner roll. 

Quatre grinned, abashed. “Well...I got lost.”

Her smile turned smug. “Oh, you don’t say.” 

Quatre took a chance and chucked a piece of his own roll at her and was rewarded with a delighted laugh. Several of the other patrons at the table smiled in approval. To them, at least, it seemed Quatre had made it clear that he did not intend to be just some name on a check - this was important, they were important, and he needed them as much as they needed him. The least he could do was share a meal and learn their names. 

Speaking of names. “Oh, by the way, I accidentally barged in on someone when I was looking. Tall, green eyes, brown hair long in the front?”

Leah quieted and glanced at the others who were suddenly busy pushing at their peas. Quatre frowned, puzzled. “What? What’s wrong?”

Sighing, Leah chewed another bite of bread and took her time swallowing before she answered. “That’s just Trowa.”

“‘Trowa?’ That’s an unusual name.” 

“You think so, _Quatre?_ ” 

He grinned. She had a point. “Well, why is he ‘just’ Trowa?”

Again, that sigh. “Well...he’s _nice_ and all, he’s just…”

“Bonkers,” supplied a man to Quatre’s left, a blonde trapezeman with a thick European accent. 

Leah shot him a glare. “He is not. He’s just...well, a little strange, I guess. Not all the chickens stayed in the coop.” 

“Strange how?” Quatre pressed. 

“Never says a damn word, that’s what. Looks clean at you, stares, and never says a single godforsaken word,” piped up another one of the trapeze artists, a man Quatre had been introduced to as Zeke. “He’s creepy, he is. Got nothing to say to the rest of us, too good to share a meal, never sticks around after the show. Sure doesn’t help to watch him sharpen those knives, I tell you that.” 

“Oh, he’s a knife thrower?”

“No,” Leah corrected. “Cathy is the knife thrower, and the only one who really spends time with Trowa. Don’t know what it is, but she seems to enjoy his...erm...company?” At Quatre’s raised eyebrow, she hurried on. “No, no, nothing funny like that, I just mean he doesn’t seem all that entertaining, you know - what with the not talking at all. We all just figure he’s a mute. You know, mama dropped him or some such or he was just born touched, and you can’t really complain when he pulls his weight fine. He just doesn’t seem to like people much. Or he can’t understand them. Or somethin’.” 

Instead of being off-put, Quatre was intrigued. He hadn’t _seemed_ “touched.” Those eyes had been intelligent. Quick. They had seemed kind. 

“Oh,” he said, for lack of anything else to say. 

“Best just to keep away,” Zeke went on. “Never knowing what people like that’ll do if they’re provoked.” The others nodded sagely and went back to mopping up spaghetti sauce with their rolls. 

“Hm.” Quatre chewed at his lip, but didn’t push any more. 

\--- 

Quatre hadn’t been able to return to the circus for nearly a week. The increasing frequency of shareholder meetings was getting ridiculous. For a company as unfathomably large as WEI, the relatively small percentage held by outside parties sure felt awfully entitled to a say in his everyday decisions. This was precisely why they had kept the majority of their main operations privatized - because Quatre had never enjoyed being told what to do. 

As it stood, and to no one’s great surprise, he’d been subjected to an earful about how much money was being wasted on this little “diversion,” about how the people could suck it up and bounce back, how the government would take care of funding new roads and schools and such, and how Winner Enterprises ought to continue its proud history of supplying the means to defend people from...etcetera and so on. As soon as the conversation devolved into that tired routine, as it always did, Quatre would stand and inform them, curtly and polite as possible, that what he chose to invest his private income in was none of their concern and that they could pass along all relevant objections to his secretary. One look at Dorothy, with her glacial stare and serpentine smile, was often enough to keep those “relevant objections” low. 

It baffled him, though, how anyone could look at the dilapidated towns, bedraggled fields and gray faces of the people here and call it “fine.” War affected everyone, not just those on the frontlines, and shouldn’t everyone try to help where they could? How else would they begin to rise above this cycle? And the way things stood...how long until World War III? It certainly hadn’t taken long before the first two. Quatre liked to believe, naively perhaps, that they could move into an era of peace, and that change began from the ground up. That those who had their hands free and the strength to do so should offer to pull up those in need. As far as he had seen so far, apparently he was alone in that belief - at least among the wealthy. 

It hurt. It was exhausting. It made everything feel futile, and then it made him furious that they had made everything feel futile, which only increased his stubborn resolve to push forward, which led to even _more_ exhausting work…

That was why, when his car cleared the hill and he looked across the meadow at the cheery flags, merrily snapping away in the pale early-springtime sun, it felt like he’d been shouldering boulders and was now allowed to put them down. Temporarily, at least. 

He pulled back on the long stick and put his little blue Ford Coupe in park. The poor thing struggled through the mud whenever they drove here, making an awful chugging sound, but Quatre refused to drive anything flashier than this. He was always stuck walking a line between putting on a show of power for those who admired such things and trying very hard not to do so in front of those who would be less than impressed. His car was one of those places he felt he’d done a pretty good job. The wheeze it gave when he turned it off begged to differ. 

A week without rain had done wonders for the faire grounds; It didn’t seem nearly so boggy as the last time he’d visited. Tiny wildflowers, trampled before, were now dotting the clover with specks of white and forget-me-not blue. It was pastoral, beautiful in its own way, and he felt a bit bad for having cursed it for a swamp the last time he’d come. 

“Quatre!”

He looked up at the sound of his name and caught Leah waving to him, an array of bright feathers forming a halo around her head where they stuck out from her hair. He grinned and waved, jogging a little to close the distance between them. 

“Hello, Leah,” he said genially, fingering one of the feathers. “You’re looking bright-eyed and…”

“Don’t say it,” she warned. “You’re not as funny as you think you are. Nice car.” 

“Thanks. What’s everyone up to? Am I interrupting?” 

Leah smiled, and it made the round button of her nose scrunch up. “It’s rehearsals for us today - me and the rest of the animal acts. Later on they’ll get the highwire acts to practice, once they can clear the tent and set the net. You wanna watch?”

It was difficult for Quatre to mask his eagerness - and, since he had decided he liked Leah very much, he didn’t try to. “Absolutely! I won’t make anyone nervous will I? After the day I’ve had, the last thing I need is trying to explain an accident to our insurance company or,” his eyes narrowed, “the shareholders.” 

Her grin sideways and piratical, Leah once again helped herself to Quatre’s arm, escorting him through the traffic of costumers, jugglers, and the occasional dove or dog. “Of course not. Honestly, most of the people here have no idea who you are.”

Quatre sagged, and Leah chuckled. “You have no idea how nice that is,” he told her. 

“Yes, it must be awful, getting the five-star treatment wherever you go. Poor you.” From anyone else it would have sounded bitter. From Leah, it felt just like the teasing he’d endured all his life from a gaggle of sisters, some of whom he even loved. 

\--- 

It had been, to Quatre’s great surprise, a very pleasant afternoon. Watching the animal acts was particularly rewarding, given that he got to pet them all afterwards, and anyone with a soul would be hard-pressed to stay tense with an elephant snuffling their hair. 

That was then. This was now. And “now” was being informed that he had a surprise visitor waiting for him by his tent.

Quatre detested surprises. They were very rarely pleasant, and they always resulted in more work. Begrudgingly, he’d waved to Leah, stalked towards the front entrance, and tried not to sulk.

It would have been hard to miss the man. He would have stood out in any crowd if just for his demeanor alone. He wasn’t tall - perhaps an inch or so more than Quatre - but he carried himself with confidence. Any man, Quatre thought, with hair that fell to his behind in a braid would have to be confident. He turned when he heard Quatre coming and grinned.

“Mr. Winner.” He tipped his Stetson. “Name’s Maxwell.” The man stuck out his hand. Quatre took it warily and was bemused by how warm the handshake was - not in terms of friendliness, though Quatre didn’t sense anything less - but in that it was physically warm despite how cold the day had become. “But my friends call me Duo.” 

Quatre lifted an eyebrow. “Which means that I should call you…?”

Duo’s already crooked smile broadened and grew more lopsided. “On Friday, if you’re free, but I gotta warn you, I ain’t a cheap date.” He laughed when Quatre spluttered. 

“Well,” Quatre tried, cleared his throat, tried again. “Well, what is it that I can do for you, Mr. Maxwell?”

“Duo,” Duo corrected. “And I figure it’s more something I can do for you.” 

Quatre highly doubted that, but he motioned for Duo to follow him into his tent. Duo immediately made for one of the folding chairs and spun it around, sitting backwards with his legs splayed. It set Quatre’s teeth on edge, if only because this man was roguishly handsome and seemed, annoyingly, to know it. 

“Tea?” he asked belatedly, already digging out kindling for the samovar to give his hands something to do.

Duo wrinkled his entire face up. “Never touch the stuff, but thanks all the same. Never did understand why some folks go nuts for some old leaf juice.”

Quatre resisted the urge to sniff disdainfully, but put the sticks back down. It was too much effort to get the water boiling to make “leaf juice” for one. “Can I offer you something else instead?”

Duo shook his head. “Thanks kindly, but I figure you’re a busy guy and likely want to know just why I’m here.” 

“The thought crossed my mind,” Quatre deadpanned. 

Clearly not one to take offense easily, Duo reached inside his jacket and pulled out a wrinkled pamphlet. Quatre took it and examined it, turning the front which read “HEAVEN ON EARTH!” to the back, which was nothing but a picture of farmland as far as he could tell. 

“That’s not just any farm,” Duo said, as if reading his mind. “It’s great cattle country and we do alright just with that, but we recently figured out the wheat’s not the only thing gold in those fields.” 

Quatre frowned. “You were...mining? The cattle farm? I’m afraid I don’t follow.” 

Duo shook his head. “Not on purpose, but something like that. One of the hands was digging a ditch and soon as he’d gotten a few feet down, the whole thing starts turning black.” 

“Ah, you struck oil.” 

“Sure did. Turns out the whole damn ranch is sitting on enough oil to - well, to float a whole oil rig. A fleet of em.” 

Quatre handed the brochure back. “Congratulations. That’s certainly fortuitous.” 

Duo nodded and tucked it back into his jacket. “Ain’t it just. Problem is, we’re cattle ranchers - not prospectors. We don’t have much in the way of digging outside of a few shovels. All that oil on our land and not a way to get to it.” 

Finally, Quatre began to understand his potential role in this story. “And I assume you’re looking for Winner Enterprises to help you with that endeavor?” 

Duo flashed his white teeth in that cheeky smile again. “There’s a nice percentage of the cut with your name on it. Not a bad deal for a couple of pieces of equipment, right?”

Quatre pursed his lips. If everything was as Duo said it was, it was a deal his grandfather - and likely his father - would have jumped on. They were always looking for new ways to gain a foothold in whatever was lucrative. Quatre, however, had to be far more discerning if his plan to rebrand was going to actually work - and stick. 

“You’ll have to forgive me for sounding a bit arrogant, but WEI hardly needs the profits. I’m sure you’re aware that my takeover of the company has been...tempestuous. I’ve worked too hard to steer the company in a new direction and I can’t just invest on a whim.” 

Duo shrugged easily. “‘Course you can’t. That’s why I’m here. I can answer your questions and tell you whatever you want to know, get it in writing, all that good stuff.” 

“Well, for starters,” Quatre steepled his fingers and crossed his legs, swiftly uncrossing them when he realized he’d picked up the pose from his father. “What do you intend to do with the oil? Who are your buyers?” 

“Don’t have any yet.”

“Hm.” Quatre had begun tapping his fingers against his lips, and realized Duo was following their motions with obvious appreciation. He flushed when Duo looked up from his lips to give him a knowing smirk. “I would...certainly have some stipulations that would need to be legally binding.”

“You don’t want it to go to weapons,” Duo guessed. 

“For Russia _or_ America,” Quatre stressed. “Or anyone else interested in warmongering.”

“Fair enough. Anything else?”

Quatre almost snorted. If this was Duo’s idea of a business negotiation, he clearly was just a ranchhand turned future tycoon. “Out of curiosity, why send you? You, specifically?” 

Duo could have taken offense to that as well, but he didn’t. Instead he tipped the chair, leaning forward into Quatre’s space more than was strictly professional. His lavender eyes grew hooded as he reached out and adjusted Quatre’s tie. 

“What can I say,” he all but purred. “I can be pretty persuasive.” 

Quatre should have been completely offput, but against his better judgement, he found heat rising under his collar. It wasn’t often that he found someone who shared his...proclivities, and damn it all, but Duo _was_ handsome. 

Still. He was better than this. 

“I’ll have to put some thought into it before I offer any potential terms. And certainly will need more information.” Quatre stood, readjusting his adjusted tie. 

Duo stood with him and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Sure. Why don’t I hang around the circus for a while, and you can get to know me? Promise I’m an open book, and I’ll answer all your questions honestly.”

Frowning a little, Quatre asked, “How long are you staying here?” 

Duo grinned again. “Long as it takes.” 

Against his better judgement, Quatre found himself smiling back. “I’m not certain I’ve gotten the impression I can trust you to stay out of trouble, Mr. Maxwell.” 

“Duo,” Duo repeated. “And nah, I’ll be a good boy. Probably could make myself useful, actually.” 

Holding open the tent flap for him, Quatre shook his head. “Talk to the Ringmaster. It’s his circus, not mine. I’m just the pocketbook.” 

Following Duo out, he realized a little sadly how true that felt these days. 

\--- 

His phonecall with Dorothy had gone about as well as expected. She was less than impressed with his summary of the conversation with Duo, and wasn’t thrilled with the idea of his attention being divided when they had so much going on. He’d assured her that yes, he was aware, and also not an impulsive idiot, but that he’d gotten the sense that Duo’s intentions were good. Dorothy, one of few people who knew the extent to which Quatre’s intuition worked, just sighed and told him not to be willful. Also, he had a meeting with his shareholders at 7 the next morning. Evidently they hadn’t been satisfied at the last 7 am meeting and needed to rehash the details. Again. 

By the time he’d hung up, Quatre was drained. He’d been spending his time at the circus rather than the office to get away from it as best he could, but of course that was only ever an illusion. Still, it made a nice change to conduct business with the smell of fresh air and campfires and peanuts instead of the same recycled air. 

Needing to stretch his legs, Quatre loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar, stepping from his tent into the meadow. It was evening and the dusk was falling purple and pretty, shot through with warm peach and yellow. He inhaled and let it out on a long sigh, reaching up to stretch and wincing when his back cracked. 

With no real destination in mind, he began to walk the perimeter of the circus, largely ignored by the inhabitants. A few nodded or held up a hand in greeting, but he was never sure if they actually knew who he was or were just being friendly - and if it was the former, if they were only being friendly specifically because they knew who he was. It was...depressing. 

He’d been so lost in his sullenness that he hadn’t realized he’d made it all the way around to the animal enclosures. With the circus setting up a semi-permanent presence here for the time being, he’d insisted on having them in something more than a cage. It had taken some back and forth, but they’d finally come up with pens that were still contained but allowed for some roaming. He found himself wandering towards the horses, leaning on the fence and watching them snorting and pulling up grass. 

A hand brushed his elbow and he looked up, startled to find Trowa had managed to appear right beside him without so much as a crunching footfall. The man was looking down at him with a small, quiet smile that made Quatre’s heart stutter in his chest. 

“Hello again,” Quatre smiled back. “You are...really quite sneaky, you know that? I didn’t hear you at all.” 

Trowa’s smile widened just a fraction and he shrugged, nodding towards the horses and raising his eyebrows in a question. 

“I do like them,” Quatre agreed, somehow confident that he’d understood what Trowa was asking. “My father had a few prized Arabians when I was young. I always wanted to ride one, but I was never allowed.” At Trowa’s quirked brow, he explained, “Too dangerous, they said. They couldn’t risk the only boy to a broken neck. I was so disappointed.” He looked back out at the field. “They were beautiful creatures.” 

A soft touch at his elbow told Quatre that Trowa wanted his attention. He glanced up obediently to see Trowa holding up a finger, signaling him to wait. With the grace of a cat, Trowa easily swung himself up and over the fence, making his way towards the nearest horse - a white gelding with a black spot over his left eye. The horse lifted his head and whickered at Trowa, nosing at his face and snorting at his hair. Quatre was surprised to hear Trowa chuckle, the sound deep and soothing. Patting the horse’s neck, Trowa gently led him towards the fence with nothing more than his soft touch. Quatre blinked. In no time, the huge horse was right in front of him and Trowa was giving him that warm smile that went right into his too-green eyes. 

Quatre lifted a hand hesitantly. “Can I…?” he asked, feeling like a small child again. Trowa nodded, rubbing the horse’s neck comfortingly. With one finger and then two, Quatre very slowly reached towards the white nose, jerking back when the horse shook its head. Trowa caught his hand and drew it forward, placing Quatre’s palm on the white forehead. He began to pet, marveling at the soft, coarse fur and the feeling of warm grass-breath on his chest. 

“What’s his name?” Quatre asked in a murmur. 

Trowa smirked and pointed to the black spot. 

“Spot? His name is Spot?” When Trowa shrugged again, Quatre laughed. He stroked with more confidence, petting Spot’s cheek as he chewed. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Spot. I’m Quatre.” 

Spot didn’t seem terribly interested, but he did nose at Quatre’s shirt pocket inquisitively. 

“Sorry, boy, I don’t have anything for you. Next time, though, I promise.” 

Spot snorted and went back to eating grass. Quatre met Trowa’s gaze and grinned at him. Trowa was smiling back at him in a way that made him feel too hot, even with the chilly evening breeze. 

“Thank you, Trowa,” he said sincerely. Trowa blinked at him in surprise. “Oh, I...I asked Leah for your name, I hope you don’t mind?” 

Trowa shook his head, but still seemed perplexed. Quatre reached his hand out to Trowa. “I’m Quatre. I’m sorry that we weren’t properly introduced when I rudely stumbled into your tent, and that I introduced myself to the horse before you.” 

Trowa took his hand and his grip was firm and calloused. He nodded at Quatre in acknowledgement and the handshake lingered longer than necessary. Quatre finally let go with reluctance. 

“You have a way with animals,” he observed. “I saw this fellow yesterday throwing a bit of a temper tantrum.” 

It seemed like Trowa scoffed, offering his opinion of the other horse handlers, and Quatre grinned. Trowa’s eloquent shrug and fond stroke of Spot’s flank was all he needed to understand. 

_You just need to understand them,_ Trowa was saying. It felt clear as day to him, and Quatre spared a thought for how easy he found it to communicate with someone who didn’t actually speak. He wondered if that was true because of his abilities, or if Trowa was just...extraordinary that way. 

“Is this what you do? Do you care for the animals?” Quatre asked, lying as if he hadn’t inquired about that as well. 

Trowa shook his head no, seemed to reconsider, then made a gesture with his hand that said _sometimes._ He made a fist and moved it back and forth, indicating swinging. 

“Trapeze?” Quatre guessed. “That’s...remarkable. I can’t wait to see you perform.” 

To his secret delight, Trowa seemed almost shy to hear that and the boyish, bashful little smile he got in return made him want to melt. 

“I-” He was cut off by someone calling his name. He turned and found a young man he’d never met jogging towards him, yelling that his secretary wanted to speak to him, that his telephone had been ringing. 

Quatre sighed, called back that he’d be right there, thank you. When he turned around to apologize to Trowa, he found himself alone with Spot. 

“How does he do that?” he asked Spot, who did not reply. 

\--- 

Duo accompanied him to each tour of the circus that week, and incidentally, Quatre never saw Trowa in all that time. 

Not that he was specifically looking or anything, mind you. 

“It’s a nice set up,” Duo had complimented, hands in his pockets, all laid back grace and easy confidence. “You sure spared no expense. Think you’ll take it on the road sometime?” 

Quatre hummed thoughtfully over his notepad. “I think it would be nice, but we’ll have to see if people really respond to it. The whole point is to foster goodwill and help bring some color back to those who need it after the war.” 

Duo chuckled as he glanced back over his shoulder. “Funny thing - when you say it, it sounds pretty damn genuine.” 

Pursing his lips, Quatre shot him a look as he finished up his tallies. “I believe there was a compliment of sorts in there somewhere.”

“Sure, boss.” Stretching up, Duo released with an exaggerated sigh and gave him a grin. “So what’s next?”

“You really don’t need to follow me around, Mr. Maxwell. I’m sure you have better things to do with your time.” 

“Not really. Not until you decide you like me.” Duo’s grin broadened. “So what’s next?”

“Next” was observing practice - Quatre’s not-so-secret favorite part of patronizing a circus. He had yet to watch anyone perform other than Leah, the animals, and a few of the clown acts. As they walked between tents, Quatre spared a thought for exactly who he had _not_ seen perform...and another thought for why he seemed to care. 

Turned out, his timing was impeccable. 

The entire tent had gone red. There was haze - smoke or fog - snaking its way across his feet and giving shape to the light. It was like looking up from underwater, if the sky were on fire. He could smell the wet dank of dry ice, and his logical mind knew that these were tricks, that all of this was for atmosphere, of course he knew that, but…

But there was no logic once the show began. Just the suspension of disbelief, and of breath - of conscious thought. Of anything that wasn’t simply experience. 

He knew his mouth was hanging open, and each inhale brought the taste of antique things and mist. He ought to close it, but he’d long lost the ability to move. Instead, his gaze was fixed on the figure who had stepped onto the platform, silhouetted in magnificent black against the red, red sky. 

Up there, Trowa was transformed. He wasn’t the silent, watchful man with whom Quatre had played cards. Up there, his form was tall, stretched almost and the shock of his hair shot out like a knife. He raised his arms, and the shape of them, all the lean and sensuous muscles, were defined in stark contrast. In that moment, he wasn’t a man - he was outside of reality. He was art. 

As if in slow motion, Quatre watched him bend his knees before launching out into the air, a perfect arc of black jackknifing through the scarlet sky. He held his breath, feeling weightless as if he had been the one to take that astronomical leap. It came out in a rush, like being punched, when Trowa caught the trapeze and his whole body arched. The momentum carried him forward, forward, into a moment of inertia where he was still before he fell back the other way. Trowa folded his body in half and on the next downswing, he had the trapeze tucked in his knees, arms spread wide as if begging. His hands caught the next bar and in a single smooth motion he’d transferred, swung up, and braced himself standing in a wide X. Quatre watched him, that black figure, as he passed in front of the smoky red and white lights, and he felt the creak and pull of the ropes right in his core. Tight, coiling. Tense. Trowa bowed his back, offering his chest to the sky, and he looked for all the world like a god - like the marbled Greek statues made of a thousand sinewy lines, bodies held in the stillness of impossible motion. 

The act could have been an hour. It could have been five minutes. Time was meaningless in this spell they were under, and even when Trowa had planted his feet firmly on the platform once more and was taking his final bow, Quatre didn’t feel released. His head throbbed, his throat felt raw. He was staring openly and now, now that the lights were changing, Trowa could see him too. They met eyes when Trowa lifted his head, still bowing, and the green of them was fever-bright, intense, framed against the rise and fall of Trowa’s strong breaths. He didn’t blink, so Quatre couldn’t either, and he was _trapped, rooted_ to the ground, lifting his hand, reaching - 

The house lights snapped on, flooding everything in sterile white. Trowa stood completely and turned, making his way down the ladder to the ground. Dazed, Quatre looked around and found a few people staring after Trowa with detached curiosity, Vlad applauding, and the next act already setting up. Duo, however, was watching him. He suddenly felt very exposed. 

Too late, he thought to go congratulate Trowa on the performance. By the time he’d turned back to the ladder, Trowa was already gone. 

  
  



End file.
